


While I Pondered Weak And Weary

by Aztecl



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Changelings, Dominion War (Star Trek), Episode: s05e14 In Purgatory's Shadow, Episode: s05e15 By Inferno's Light, Episode: s05e16 Doctor Bashir I Presume, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Genetic Engineering, Genetically Engineered Beings, POV Julian Bashir, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27688799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aztecl/pseuds/Aztecl
Summary: A reflection of Julian Bashir after his time as a prisoner in Internment Camp 371 and having his secret revealed.Obvious spoilers for season five's episodes 14, 15, and 16.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Miles O'Brien
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	While I Pondered Weak And Weary

**Author's Note:**

> How'd I do? Constructive criticism and feedback is always welcomed and greatly appreciated. Also, this is the first thing I've written in weeks, and in a fandom different than what I've previously written for! :)
> 
> The title comes from a poem by Edgar Allan Poe, entitled, 'The Raven': "Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary..."

Julian Bashir stared up at the dull, grey ceiling above him, wondering if it was nothing but a harsh trick his brain was playing.

He'd never had a problem with the color before. It was simple and solid, an easy choice for everyone's liking. Of course, Julian had a feeling that the Cardassians didn't design the station for comfort or have it fit to be anything more than a base of operations. With that thought in mind, the station was devoid of color and stripped of any homey touches. You go and get the job done, and you definitely don't stick around to admire your stark surroundings.

But now Julian found himself hating—no, _loathing_ —the bleak choice of color.

The grey was nothing but a jolt of remembered pain from his time spent as a prisoner residing in Internment Camp 371. There, everything was all in one shade of grey with little variation throughout the prison. It perfectly reflected the emotions bottled inside its residents—anger, fear, depression—and even added in a sprinkling of hopelessness to help diminish your mental health into the point of no recovery.

Julian sighed and sat up, ignoring the way the fabric of his Starfleet uniform felt on his still too bony shoulders. He turned his head slowly to look at the walls making up his quarters on Deep Space Nine.

The doctor felt a slight pang of happiness at the sight of his overturned bowl of stew on the floor. A brown liquid rolled down the side of the wall closest to it, smearing the grey with a faint coffee colored tint. Julian knew he should clean it up and get something else to eat. He knew he should move on from his experiences in the camp, yet another recurring thought to Julian was that nothing could calm the storm brewing and churning inside his stomach.

The feeling was almost as strikingly horrid as Julian's biggest and most darkest secret—the genetic enhancements.

He supposed that it only made sense his life was finally toppling like the fragile tower that it stood on. Julian suddenly thought about the lies he'd told, as both a child and adult, like entering Starfleet and practicing medicine. He had always finished second as to not raise suspicion that Julian Bashir might be a fraud, but now he realized none of his efforts really mattered. The secret was out and it was time to adapt.

The grey walls that he once took comfort in seeing (especially near the shelf that usually held Kukalaka) made Julian feel trapped. His throat constricted and he tried to suck a decent amount of air into his lungs in order the slow his breathing.

Suddenly he was back in Internment Camp 371. Julian could see the Jem'Hadar sneering at him, the faint glow of their ketracel-white supplying tubes sticking out strongly to Julian's enhanced eyesight. He could feel their strong arms and scales pressing against him as his bruised and battered body was dragged to a distant cell in solitary confinement, away from his cellmates and the sick Cardassian he'd been caring for, Tain.

Julian felt his eyes burn. He was beginning to regret his decision in listening to a Starfleet nurse and following her advice: _Doctor, we have plenty of staff for the next shift. You should get some sleep._

What he needed, Julian thought, was to lose himself in his work like usual. Only now, he was running from his past terror of being a prisoner and everyone aboard Deep Space Nine staring and whispering and spreading news like wildfire about stupid—

"Julian," someone called. "It's Miles. Can you open the door?"

Taking several breaths of varying sizes, Julian steadied himself and crossed the room to his door.

He smiled faintly at his friend, Miles O'Brien, and made sure to block the doorway view into his quarters. Julian didn't need anybody raising questions about his mental health, the bowl of overturned stew remaining in Julian's quarters as proof for no one's eyes other than his own.

"You up for a drink? Quark's?" Miles asked.

"Of course," Julian said on automatic, "let's go."

Miles smiled back at the doctor and placed a hand on Julian's shoulder. As they walked along the halls of the station, Julian couldn't help but let his mind wander into his darkened thoughts.

Where Miles's hand sat, the doctor resisted the urge to flatten out the grey fabric to try and resemble his old uniform. Julian wasn't even aware the uniforms had changed while he'd been captive (duh), having instead learned when arriving back at the station after their escape.

For whatever reason, Julian couldn't stand it.

It wasn't just the grey color, or the way the shoulder area moved about when Julian performed his normal routines on Deep Space Nine and in the infirmary. Instead, his reluctance to wear it came from the fact that it didn't truly belong to Julian Bashir. The uniform had been given to a Changeling without hesitation or suspicion that it wasn't the good doctor, making it a secondhand item given to Julian from an imposter.

He was surprised there wasn't a note attached, saying _Thanks, Loser! Your friends must suck if they can't tell the difference!_

What was it that Miles, the man right beside him, had said? That the Changeling was easier to get along with than the real Julian, while said Julian suffered and was beat into a bloody pulp at a Dominion war camp—for over a month!

And then his own parents couldn't see past a half-finished android and casually dropped his secret into the conversation. An android could be programmed into whatever a person desires, perfect and without a single flaw; the definition of an impossible design from an impeccable architect. Richard Bashir had taken plenty of architecture jobs, the most recent being landscaping, and his own son was proof of building a person to who you want them to be, Julian thought bitterly. Did that make his father a _true_ architect?

Julian snapped himself out of his thoughts as he and Miles crossed the threshold of Quark's bar. He slowed his pace down, dragging his feet along the floor.

For a few short seconds, it felt good to hear normal conversations of people about a wild assortment of topics. Julian's enhanced hearing picked up on talk of the latest holosuite program, Bajoran women, and random teasing between friends both in and out of Starfleet. The feeling didn't last long before everyone noticed the genetically enhanced doctor walk in. Their chatter faded away, all except for the drunken ramblings of an ensign who'd had one too many. Julian felt his skin prickle with the dozens of burning eyes staring at him.

 _"The word you are looking for, is_ unnatural _._ _Freak or monster would also be acceptable."_

He was the piece of tinder that burned no matter the circumstances, and nothing could extinguish the blazing fire or silence the roaring flames keeping Julian trapped; it was like Internment Camp 371, but a worse feeling with seeing the people he once called friends apply an expression of surprise and betrayal—unless that was once again, an illusional product of Julian's overthinking mind.

Miles steered him over to an empty table by the window, glaring at everyone as they passed. Julian sat down and immediately rotated his chair to face the window. His friend mirrored the position and stayed silent, wordlessly beckoning Julian to speak his mind.

"The stars sure are bright," the doctor said slowly. "I once told Dax and Kira that the stars must be brighter in the Gamma Quadrant. Maybe I've been blinded for years, enough so that I never noticed the comparison in the stars of this area and—"

"Julian." Miles laughed. "I think you're getting ahead of yourself."

"Yeah? What would you suggest, Miles?"

"Celebrate. You get to keep your medical license and remain a part of Starfleet, Julian. That's worth celebrating."

Julian thought for a moment.

He was saved from answering, however, as Quark chose that moment to show up. "Well! I certainly was not expecting to see you gentleman tonight!" He glanced at Julian with what the doctor believed to be uneasiness.

Julian plastered a fake smile on his face, almost so obvious that it hurt. "I'm told that I'm a man of many surprises."

Miles coughed and ordered a beverage, while Julian found himself staring back out the window as if he was lost in a trance.

The stars blurred together in an array of blue and purple. Beyond that, there was the black space that made up the Alpha Quadrant with millions of stars to glimmer within. They sparkled and shined brightly, living out a full course before succumbing to an exhaust in their energy and mass and the other ingredients making up the star; designed by nothing but a _natural_ architect. Julian realized the stars were a constant in his life, much like Kukalaka was and will always be.

He had been the star pupil of his classes throughout his childhood, albeit after the genetic engineering was done. Stars eventually burn and die.

He realized Quark was raising an eyebrow at him. "Well...what will it be, Doctor?"

"Surprise me, "Julian said solemnly, "but make it something strong."

Miles turned back to Quark. "You know what?—make it two. I'll have what he's having."

"Very well then," the Ferengi told them, starting back across the bar and stopping only to admire a game of what Julian could only assume to be high stakes gambling.

He barely paid Miles any attention as he turned to see the stars again. Julian felt a lump form in the back of his throat upon realizing that he couldn't see outside during his imprisonment. Maybe the stars weren't a constant; and maybe Kukalaka wasn't either.

"You alright, Julian?"

"Uh, yeah. ’Course. I'm just a little...distracted at the moment."

He felt a hand placed on his shoulder again, the fabric still bothering Julian. (He made a mental note to see Garak about adjusting its proportions, and perhaps scheduling a lunch together.)

"You know I'm here for you, right, Julian?" Miles asked with genuine concern laced in his voice.

_"He was easier to get along with."_

Was this really the same man? Or was Julian just imagining what he wanted to hear?—turning into his petty excuse for a father, as Richard Bashir only saw what he wanted. He needed a plan for his plan followed closely by a list of people he could drop the blame on. Maybe Julian just desperately wanted to be mad at someone, yearning for the sensation of having a target and an enemy to be constantly vigilant about.

When had he started craving for that?

Quark had barely returned with two glasses of an orange-yellow liquid before Julian grabbed it with a clenched and guarded grip, not giving a second thought to what he was being given. The alcohol—or whatever it was—burned the back of his throat as it slid down and left nothing but a firey taste and quench for more. The pungent odor alone was enough to overpower Julian's nostrils.

Stars burn and die, yet their lives last for millions of years. Julian didn't know it was possible to envy a celestial body made up of hydrogen and other gasses of sorts.

But hey, people change.

"Thank you, Chief," Julian told Miles. "But I'm fine."

On the contrary, he wondered just how many lies one man could tell before inevitably collapsing under its weight.


End file.
